Sisyphean
by therewithasmile
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a man and his wife. But in a freak accident, Stein lost more than Marie. He lost his passion, his motivation. After grieving and denial, he does what he knows best: he makes her. Creates her. Changes her. But truly- what is the difference between a human heart, and a mechanical one? / steinmarie, collab with l0chn3ss, reverb2015.
1. pause

**a/n:** ness and jak here. Here's our collaboration to Reverb2015, our little nod to the Steinmarie fandom. Big thanks to Scarl, Proma and Dand for your fabulous beta work once more. Also, to our wonderful artist M/code425, your idea gave us a lot of room to popcorn with, and your art is fabulous.

Without further ado, yojne (:.

* * *

 **Sisyphean:** [of a task] that can never be completed.

...

 _pause._

* * *

" _Once upon a time, there was a man and his wife._

 _His wife died, and in his grief, the man made her once more._

 _An android…"_

A spark, a fuse - and then, life. She opened her eyes.

In her chest, she could vaguely make out wires. Her vision focused, then refocused- and slowly she could see the pesky cords, inserted directly into her system like a board. She raised one hand- curiously sharp, what would be appendages instead thin brittle metal, yet still mobile; with a careful maneuver, she ripped off each wire from her body, one by one.

The only source of light in the dark room were her red eyes. Her head turned once, then the other way, as if testing her mobility. Low creaks and groans of metal against metal were the only sounds in the silence. She turned once more, then stopped, facing forward, to the man slumped over in his chair.

He raised his head, a mess of grey hair falling haphazardly, a dying cigarette between his lips. His eyes widened at the sight: his creation, his _wife,_ the manifestation of his ability. He'd created _life._ His hand groped the desk for his spectacles, his digits shook as he hooked them behind his ear, balanced them on the crook of his nose. His other hand, still trembling, reached out.

She didn't dare move. Her red, laser eyes transfixed only on him. And as he laid his palm flat against what was supposed to be her bodice- cold, cylindrical steel, crudely fashioned and held together by mismatched bolts both big and small- she couldn't quite feel the warmth of his skin. While her brain memorized the pattern of his hand, the hollow grooves of his fingers, there was nothing of who he was in her mind- nothing but a small, trailing inkling that she should know him. That she should feel _something._

He tried to utter a name, but choked on the first syllable, each consonant after stuck to his tongue like glue. The name was familiar to her; it held true affection, and somehow she remembered that it had once been hers.

The man waited for a response, and at the lack of one, he almost felt defeat, yet it in itself was acceptance of sorts. He was not one to cry, but as she blinked back at him, no motion in her android body hinting that she'd acknowledged his turmoil at all, he felt close to tears.

But then, slowly, one of her hands lifted. Her fingers- brittle pieces of metal barely held together by loose, rusted screws - extended toward his palm. It almost hurt the way each would-be digit slid underneath his own, before they curled shut-holding his hand. Even though her joints groaned with the effort, she held him there, so close to her mechanical heart.

With a hint of a stutter, she spoke in a voice that was cold, and yet held a hint of what was once _her_ warmth. Another cruel reminder that shewas but a robotic shell of what his wife once was.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be."

The words left him hollow.

She stared intently into his eyes.

He dropped his own gaze, lowering his hands to his side.

She was right.

It was _never_ supposed to be this way.


	2. rewind

_rewind._

He tried.

He tried so hard to love it- to look at it and to see it the way that he once saw his wife.

But it wasn't her.

It wasn't Marie.

The robot whirled behind him, bumping into his tables, knocking over his failed experiments, even more clumsy than his clumsy Marie. So unlike his beautifully clumsy Marie. No matter how much he wanted to believe, to look at the android and to pretend that she was still there, he saw nothing but the embers and ashes of her bones.

She handed him a cigarette.

He closed his eyes.

Stein didn't want to see it, didn't want to acknowledge the horrible mess behind him.

Her joints squeaked whenever she moved her parts, making her presence ever noticeable in the silence of his lab. The more she drifted towards him, the more he scrunched his shoulders up, making himself smaller, less noticeable, anything to avoid those laser red eyes. But they always came closer, lingering in every corner of the room, imprinted into the back of his mind and just below his eyelids. He gripped his screwdriver tighter in his hands, but careful enough to not break the fragile parts under him.

He couldn't escape her.

There was really no where else for him to go though. He was trapped with a machine, one that he fashioned after his own wife, and yet couldn't bear to be close to.

Even as she handed him the cigarette, he moved away. He moved away as quickly as he could, turning around and shutting the door behind him. He took one quick puff before blowing it out, and then slowly drew in a shaking breath. When was the last time that he'd looked at her? When was the last time he was able to breathe while she was in his presence? Certainly not since he fled her side, slamming the door behind him like a child. Screaming. Drowning out her cries that begged him to _please come back,_ only to be answered with his own _go away._

At least now she can stand behind him.

At least now he can bear to stand her.

But even now- this wasn't his wife, this wasn't Marie.

It wasn't the woman who brought him warm tea and baked sweets after hearing his frustrated grunts coming from his corner of the lab. It wasn't the cool of her palm that pressed against his sweaty forehead at the end of the day, commanding him to shower, and maybe even to shower with her. And it wasn't the soft brush of her fingers that gently parted his bangs to the side, just so she could smile into his eyes. That robot wasn't Marie.

And yet, the mannerisms were uncanny.

It continued to roll closer to him. Stein could just hear it whisper with its grinding voice- asking for Stein to turn around, to notice her, _to just, for once, notice her_. He kept his eyes shut and his hands busy on the wires in his hands, tying them, poking them, cutting them, anything but to acknowledge the machine behind him.

He didn't flinch when his eyes finally opened to see the scarlet beams bouncing off the walls and onto his chest- his hair falling into his eyes and his breathing coming in ragged gasps. He made sure to look down only at his hands, tinkering away at the little discus on his worktable. The little parts were made of mismatched colors, welded together from the previous day. There were wires threaded through the thin metal that poked out every which way, ready to be attached to whatever he desired. It was a delicate process, but he couldn't care less if this distraction crumbled in his rough, worn hands.

At least she'd learned one thing: when to hand him a cigarette. He took it gratefully, taking one long puff before leaning back with a sigh.

Then he felt warm fingers- ones of disgusting overheated metal and repulsive vibrating heat- touch the back of his hand. And he stilled, unable to decide whether he should slap her away or to cut off his own flesh. Horrid warmth threatened to consume him, threatened to steal him away from his own body and to rip him away from the cool comfort of his loneliness. Her bodice glistened, flickering like the embers of a distant time as she seemed to tremble, unable to keep her frame still as she tried to hold his hand.

M.A.R.1.E. looked right into him, blinding him with her focused, metallic eyes. She was expressionless, but perhaps she saw his insanity, his fear, his constant reminder of that night when his other half had burned, and she spoke a few unintelligible words- ones that only convinced Stein to rip his hand away from hers. It sounded eerie. Terrible. Grating.

It was wrong. All wrong.

Anything and everything unlike his wife.

He threw his half finished project across the room, snapping it in half, and it fell to the ground where it lay forgotten.

The memory of her terrible noise echoed throughout his sleepless night, so familiar, yet so different from his Marie.

* * *

She opened her eyes.

She blinked once, then twice, up at the man before her, a cigarette between his teeth and his eyes staring down at his tools rather than at the table where she had been laying. Her hands immediately shot to her throat, probing and bending the synthetic skin beneath her mismatched fingers. It was entirely a new sensation that settled in her throat, but it wasn't wrong. It was comforting. Safe. They were all sensations that M.A.R.1.E. distantly remembered, and yet those memories were still seemingly so far from her grasp, like she couldn't quite understand what it meant yet. She looked to Stein with dull eyes, but he knew what she was asking.

He removed his cigarette and cleared his own throat, coughing into his fist as he gingerly touched the side of his thorax with two of his fingers. Stein didn't look at her as he mumbled a quick command, but he turned when she followed through.

It was hers.

It was Marie who called out to him.

Not M.A.R.1.E- but his Marie.

Her voice rang in his ears , soft and stirring. It was fresh. Vivid. Ringing with clarity as only his wife could bring to his murky, dull life. She tested it. Touched it. Played with the volume and the range of her new addition as she crooned, as if fascinated by her own ability to produce sound.

Low.

And then high.

Low.

And then high.

Even after a while, after Stein had given in to the raw song as she tinkered with her new found sound, he could just see the remnants of his wife who left him all those nights ago. He recalled the memories of the days she could smooth his wrinkles and coax the grime from his hand with the touch of her melody. It was so rarely that he'd heard her sing, but when she did, the skies bowed to her and water flowed from her lips.

But that sweet voice didn't match her body. It didn't match with what he saw.

It still wasn't Marie.

She reached out to touch his hand with hers, but he flinched away from it, tearing himself from her side and walking briskly away and out the door, back into his messy room that stank of burnt wires and scrap metal, leaving her in her own confusion.

And maybe even longing.

* * *

She called out his name, but he didn't turn- didn't even acknowledge that she was behind him, even if the melody beckoned him closer. The light from her eyes reflected back from the gloss of the wall.

It was so familiar, the memory of his wife calling to him in the afternoon for his attention- bringing him a tray of miniature cakes that she had baked after lunch and tea that she had brewed just minutes before.

Just the way he liked it.

And how he would sweep her in his arms and twirl her around his body to face him, thanking her for the snack with peppered kisses and perhaps even one on her lips that tasted of sugar so similar to the sweets she'd made.

Just the way she liked it.

All of that was lost now as he tinkered away at his workbench, ruefully shaping the material in his hands, unable to keep his fingers steady as the siren behind called him into her deadly embrace. Stein waited for her to cease her wailing. Maybe bite her lips in a pout and to squeeze the sides of her dress in frustration. Maybe scrunch up her eyebrows and eventually turn away, finding entertainment elsewhere. He continued onwards, playing with chemicals and dyeing the contents of the beakers into shades of gold- though he was unsatisfied with every single one.

And still, M.A.R.1.E. continued to call his attention. She stood in the same place for hours without a wasted movement, vibrating the air and expelling her sickly warm that caught on his back. That is, until he extended a hand. She'd been taught to hand him his cigarettes, if anything to be different from _her_ , her who once had yanked it from his teeth and stomped it into the ground.

Even as she extended her hand, she didn't touch him- didn't do anything like how Marie used to. She didn't reach out to touch his chin and feel his growing stubble. Her hand was nowhere to be found on his chest and over his heart, nor would she be able to feel his warm with her metallic skin.

Even as Stein perfected his favorite shade of gold, she sang on.

* * *

They were bright.

Bright like how he remembered them to be. Bright like the sparkle of embers as they singed. Bright like shimmering stardust that cascaded down from the dark sky. Bright like the stars that held the mysteries of the universe with their tantalizing allure. Bright like the sun and bright like the shine of their wedding rings that he still carried around on both of his ring fingers.

Bright like Marie's eyes when he proposed all those years ago- on top of their roof looking out into the rising sun as the leaves fluttered around.

Her eyes.

They were no longer a shocking blood red laser- a horror at every corner of his own home, cold as the touch of his tools. Instead, they looked at him now. Open. Scared. Showing small dashes of emotions that wouldn't be etched on her face until much, much later.

For now, this was enough.

Stein peeled off his glove and brought it to her cheek, tilting her head just enough for him to gaze directly into her monotonic face. But he saw nothing he wanted to see.

She was still as he left her, unchanged except for those two rounded orbs that seemed to do nothing but mock him. And they mocked him further as she handed him yet another cigarette. As she observed him drawing a slow puff in, he was only reminded once again of his small success, his tiny _tiny_ success as she straightened too easily. As she only watched with her too-straight posture and her too-lifeless face, when he was the one who left her again, clicking the door on his way out. M.A.R.1.E. brought her thick fingers to her eyelids, feeling the softness underneath them that was so different from the rest of her.

As she looked around the room, she marvelled as she no longer heard the distinct whirling deep within her sockets. She could tell gaps were missing- colours and spaces and dimensions she knew, instinctively, should exist. And though her brain thought differently, rationally, she still found _comfort_ in the imperfection. It gave her a sense of understanding, clarity; the light from the lamp was kind, the shadows were her refuge.

Everything that once seemed trivial seemed so different, so _observable._ With these strange eyes, she could examine the walls, the floor, even the shelf stuffed with oddities, books and knickknacks and bits and pieces of paper sticking from here and there. Something caught on the corner of her eye, a small piece on his desk, next to a closed window. Her next instinct kicked, but when she squinted, nothing changed. No zoom, no matter how hard she tried.

A shame really.

M.A.R.1.E. slid off of the table- landing on her feet with a thud that sounded more like grinding- and she approached the little wooden frame. A part of her already knew what it was- longed for it- but the other part of her wanted to toss it away. As she drew closer and closer, she could almost hear distant laughing and giggles echo in the room, bouncing off the walls too empty to be called a home.

Then suddenly, it was too dark for her. The blackness of the corners reached towards her and the dim lamp did nothing to banish the shadows. It was empty. Cold.

Nothing.

The laughter grew louder and louder, flooding her ears. She took a sharp turn, away from the desk, and yanked hard at the blinds of the window. Light streamed in, catching dust as it swirled in the air.

Stein watched her without a word, still positioned outside of the door with his hand on the knob, squeezing it tightly. The light barely reached to the crack where he peered into, and why he decided to return was beyond him. But he watched, with what he realized was mild fascination, as she raised a hand in the light- shielding those silly eyes of hers as the twinkling dust swirled around her. He watched as she turned those worn, ugly hands, and for a split second, he wondered if he did something _right._

But then she let out a little blast of steam, hissing as it exited her pores. The lingering rays of the sunset shone on her ugly, patched worked skin, revealing the metal under them. The dust moved around her brittle fingers, as if repulsed by her, and the light only blinded her now too sensitive eyes - as if she needed to be reminded of her imperfect form.

And then the light hit the object he hadn't noticed was in her hand. He didn't need to see it to know what it was; countless hours staring at the very thing was enough. But for her, it must've been the first time. She raised it to her face, enough so the light framed a halo around it. Slowly, so painstakingly slowly, she turned it over.

There wasn't much there- just two people standing closely together, holding hands with matching golden bands on their fingers. Their faces were posed in similar ways with their mouths curled upwards and wrinkles that stretched vertically beside them. Such strange expressions, she thought, but she didn't poke at it any further.

And then she noticed their eyes.

How colorful they were. Full of life. Alive.

The woman's golden eyes were staring directly at M.A.R.1.E- warm, tender. Something within her brain whirred, deciphering what it meant. Motherly, she realized, _loving._ All words she could understand in theory, but to have them in front of her, amber and nearly scalding, she only realized how shallow that were her own. And it was all conflicting, the idea of knowing _what it was_ and yet, not knowing anything at all- only that she wore those eyes. Those same, lifeless eyes, that - when on this woman- were once so alive.

He wanted to reach forward- something within him compelled him to rip the picture from her. _That_ was his wife and his wife certainly wasn't _her_. They were different, damn it, he _failed_ and she's different- and yet as much as he wanted to, he could only watch. He couldn't move, not as she lowered the frame. And even then, she was so still. So inhumanly still.

He heard a crack.

M.A.R.1.E. looked down at her hand, hearing the glass trickle down to the floor, hitting the tiles one by one.

It broke.

She stood there, as if speechless, as the small shatters dotted the otherwise silent floor. Was she upset? Crying? He hadn't installed emotions into her, but it didn't mean she didn't possess a brain- and it didn't mean she couldn't understand what she _should_ be feeling right now.

But as she remained motionless, with light catching the back of her thin torso and the picture of happier days hanging limply from her fingertips. For the first time, he truly thought she was beautiful.

* * *

He blinked.

It was still day time- yet his eyes dropped and his glasses started to dip off of his nose, dangling from the tip just waiting to fall. At least M.A.R.1.E. was no where to be found, he thought.

Although he had started to relax around her, he found that he still had to force himself not to give into the urge to shun her as he once had. To not look away or flee when she came in as if the plague had manifested. M.A.R.1.E. was more patient as well, more of an annoyance than a hinderance. She was still clumsy, knocking over his furniture wherever she turned, but she was more delicate about her movements. More careful. Aware.

She started to clean the rooms, not confident enough to move whole objects but enough to dust the corners and to straighten the papers. She started to be more attentive, closing doors and picking up after the ashes that Stein left on his way in and out. She busied herself, and he almost missed her constant noise and her persistent presence behind him.

But he was also tired. Just tired.

Stein started to find comfort in the small corners of his home, propping his feet up and allowing himself to close his eyes for a few moments. A few brief moments that eventually lead to hours upon hours of sweet, blissful sleep. And he always noticed that a blanket would fall upon his shoulders just as he was drifting off.

Who else was responsible, if not M.A.R.1.E?

She draped a fresh quilt over his shoulders every day as Stein started to sleep- her arms groaning and creaking from the added movement. It was a wonder that he found it to be comforting, knowing that she showed up without fail no matter where he hid next. Still, her arms soon became silent, a gift from him for her new efforts.

Eventually, something new was added to that routine. He felt a warm touch to his forehead, just after the blanket was tucked over him and just before the mechanical hum moved away. And soon it was welcomed, somehow becoming an expectation- something that simply followed, like how two always followed one and three after that.

And he didn't know what to think.

How could he allow her to touch him as she did? To press her lips onto his own skin and pretend as if he were overtaken by sleep? He felt dirty, like he was betraying not only himself, but also his wife.

Yet a part of him knew just what he wanted to do.

And so the next time she emerged, just after she smoothed out the blanket over his back and just before her head ducked down, he pulled her in, pressing his own lips to hers.

* * *

She handed him a cigarette.

He took it thoughtlessly, his eyes still screwed up with concentration. She kept begging to open her eyes- she wanted to see it herself- but he kept denying her, gently, telling her that it'll be over within a minute.

That minute was a long minute. Then he slowly guided her upright, so slowly, and for the first time, something _heavier_ came with the motion.

Hair.

She had _hair._

The colour of tarnished gold, thick long strands that fell by the swell of her chest. Straight, if not knotted, pleasantly synthetichair that she suddenly curled her fingers in, frowning as they got caught.

He only laughed, a bit of a relieved giggle- if not a disappointed one, as he pulled her hand from within. Instead, he dragged his hand in her place, fingers catching and tangling within the mess. He tugged once, and then twice, each with a bit more force until she complained it hurt.

He got the colour wrong, he mused, his voice almost bitter. He got it wrong and it was _tangled_ , he said once more, emphasizing the frustration by putting his hand through her hair again.

But from the corner of her eye, she could see her reflection. How a previous balded, metallic head was now crowned and decorated with molten gold, falling in waves behind her.

She liked it, she liked it so much- and even though the colour wasn't quite right, she still wanted it. She wasn't sure _how_ she knew the colour was off, but there were many things she noticed that were missing from her memory, a gap in her information as long as it wasn't empirical.

He shook his head at his apparent failure, not noticing how much she loved it anyway.

Can I keep it, she trilled, her voice high and enthusiastic.

He merely shrugged- if she wanted it, she wanted it.

In thanks, she handed him another cigarette.

* * *

For the first time, he was playing music.

It wasn't really new to her, but certainly different. Her brain registered each sound, and it was somehow familiar _._ As if she'd heard it all before. She found herself knowing the next note, the next word to the song.

And so they flowed from her mouth, each word more easily than the last. Soon she found herself enjoying it- this little tune, so warm and familiar - yet at the same time, so frustratingly out of her reach, the same incomprehensible fog surrounding the corners of her brain.

He watched her with silent fascination- noticing that suddenly her heart monitor began to react. It _beat._ Like a human. Her brain activity spiked, then, following along with the music and so full of cognition that (as it were becoming more and more often as of late) he forgot she was a robot.

But how could he, when her heart and her brain all but told him that she washuman? When her golden tresses spilled from the chair she sat in, as she giggled at the sound of her own voice, far less synthesized than the previous iteration.

He wanted to touch her. It was an impulse he'd fought before, but it'd never quite manifested as strongly as it did in that moment. She was getting so close to his initial vision. Her voice, so full of the melodies and songs they once shared, was so _close._

And then her eyes turned to his.

Reflected there was something more indescribable. Joy morphed to fascination, genuine fascination, as she regarded him, too. He knew her new update would fix some things, change her emotional wiring to more mimic one of a human. Done with formulas, he opted for a more organic approach- but it was all a theory, one he was ready to discard, along with the fifty or so other iterations he'd prototyped but ultimately scrapped.

No, this time, her eyes held a different warmth. Where there was once fear was now something new, something much more inquisitive.

Familiar she realized, but in a different way than she'd expect. _Familiar,_ because she'd spent so long by his side- though through rejection as a being, rejection as a creation of his own. But there was more to this familiarity, deeper than one she would've expected.

And for the first time, he didn't turn away.

He jumped a little when he saw her fingers extend. But they were curious, imploring, and who was he to turn such an inquisitive gesture down? Yet, as each finger laid down one by one against his cheek, he couldn't help but tremble. He didn't know if it was due to fright, love, or something else entirely, but something reignited along his back. Something shot little fireworks through his spine, leaving his fingers numb and his cheeks cold.

She continued to sing, through artificial teeth and no longer characterized by little flashing lights.

She continued to sing, even as he gently pried her hand off his face and carefully twined her fingers with his.

* * *

She had a face.

And she stared in the mirror, poking and prodding. Stretching the skin around her cheeks, playing with the hint of bags beneath her eyes.

His eyes softened as her own grew harder, analyzing every new edge that her face now had. So different, yet nostalgic. He wrapped his arms around her bodice, a gesture she'd stopped stiffening to, a gesture he was slowly adjusting to.

Her eyes rolled down to his hands, almost wistfully- for she was still missing _those._ But for now, she had this, a _face,_ and it changed everything. She could feel new sensations across her body, new nerves and systems that could register touch- touch as he quickly pressed his lips against her cheek, before pulling away slowly, questioningly.

She watched it all happen in the mirror. Her face didn't change colour, didn't light to a hue of red like her brain told her to expect. Instead, it was a neutral glance- a pretty, glossy face that stared just as impassively back. She tried out some expressions then- a frown, which was easy, and then a smile, but it fell flat.

She expressed how she just couldn't be right.

He didn't respond, only a small emotion glinting in his eye. He didn't agree, nor disagree- she realized, with a sinking feeling. And so she handed him a cigarette, which he took gratefully.

And with one languid puff, he blew smoke into the air.

* * *

Her emotions were… complicated, at best.

It was hard to understand, a mixture of feelings she could name but was still unsure of. She handed him another cigarette, slow and methodical, and he accepted it gratefully as she voiced her concern, that her emotional understanding was changing. That she didn't understand what it was coming to.

He assured her everything was fine. The wiring was perfect, _nothing should be changing._ But it was- this quick growing feeling inside her, like fire that could consume her. It was no longer doubt- that had long since faded. She knew she meant _something_ to Stein, and that something was growing.

Yet there was that _other_ thing inside her, that bothered her so much, so much that she found herself at that chair once more- spilling her thoughts as if he were some kind of therapist. Stein wasn't a therapist- but he listened. He listened and his eyes glinted thoughtfully each time she tried to put to words her concern, but he didn't understand.

He hadn't messed up, he assured her, and it was all okay. It was going to be alright. It was all natural.

She wanted to believe him- but this fire inside her threatened to _burn_.

Maybe he was right. Some things would remain the same, even with all the jittery confusion, and the unknown that stretched like an abyss before her. As he extended his hand, she knew what to do.

She handed him a cigarette.

* * *

She handed him a cigarette, and her nose scrunched.

She didn't like the habit, not at all. Not today, when he'd promised to spend the evening with her, listening to music she still found hauntingly familiar as he went about his day.

So she expressed as much, and he merely blinked up at her, but not before slowly taking it out of his mouth.

And in the same confusion, she suddenly felt better. M.A.R.1.E still couldn't understand why it was so, but she _did._ Even if her hands were still not like his, she inexplicably felt better, and that was a good thing.

He leaned over to her, his eyes still on the thin pieces of metal that were her thumbs. He even looked a little rueful, but she didn't want him to feel bad. They worked just fine, even if they didn't look as pretty.

For a split second, an emotion she hadn't seen before streaked across his eyes.

But then he leaned away, seemingly contented by her answer, and so she sighed too, closing her eyes and following the rhythm of the music that lilted from their stereo.

That feeling within her, she still nursed within. She nursed the flames and allowed them to grow. Why not? It felt _good._ It made her feel alive, or more alive.

And then, she suddenly felt apprehensive. Android or not, she could sense his questions, know when they came before they even left his mouth.

But it wasn't a question, merely a statement. An offhand comment, one that seemed to be quite thoughtless in nature, judging by his state of contentedness.

 _You still look a lot like Marie._

That feeling grew again, so deep within her, as if she were finally fulfilling her purpose- the reason why he created her, the reason why she existed in the first place.

There was fog, so tangible in the corner of her memory, that she was so close to losing.

She still looked like Marie.

His voice caressed the name with affection, such a soft and tender tone for those two syllables. She looked like Marie.

If this was happiness, then she'd never want anything different.

* * *

The new addition wasn't cosmetic- but intrinsic.

There was something new in her brain, an added circuitry. Empathy, he'd explained.

Everything was different. Weightier. Suddenly she could feel in vibrant colours. She could taste the air, gauge her surroundings differently from before. Her perception shifted, changed- and she was suddenly able to _feel_.

He trembled beside her. He was _scared_. And this time, she could finally understand: he was scared for _her_. Scared that what he'd done had been too much, scared he made her too human.

But she liked it. She _liked_ being able to be like him, _human_ , in a strange and twisted sense.

As he slowly guided her hand to his heart, she could feel it beat. She could feel the nervousness. The hesitation.

She didn't care. She was getting closer to the scientist, who deep down she felt complex feelings for. Now she could finally understand, she could finally perceive- and it brought her closer to him.

With it, however, came something else: the ability to see him as more than a benefactor.

He was hurting. He was scared. He was _mad_ \- he looked at her like she was a failure; an improving one, but a failure all the same.

It didn't last long, though, for those dark feelings disappeared, and instead were replaced with adoration.

If she were honest with herself, perhaps she'd always known there was something a little _off_ about him. Then again, there was something _very_ off about her, so she didn't mind,not in the slightest, for this new update meant she could _feel._

And even if she couldn't quite understand it all, perhaps it was a start.

She wanted to help him- and now, _maybe she could._

* * *

If there was one thing she always had, it was this feeling within her.

Not quite dread. It was layered, deeper than all of that- and each level she descended, she found more there. Affection. Concern. _Terror._ And she didn't know why.

None of it made sense.

He watched her with weary eyes, the same look that had haunted his face for months now. Although it appeared more youthful now, it also held more concern. After all, they'd come so far- _he'd_ come so far - and to lose it all now would be terrifying. He'd done so _much_ and he wanted to touch her. Her synthetic skin, a blend of polyester and his own research with skin cells, he wanted to lay his hand there. Feel her press into his palm with her cheek, elongated eyelashes brushing along the grooves of his thumb as she'd sigh.

God, she was so beautiful.

Her own fingers curled around his palm, for that feeling was growing within her once more. Love. Adoration. All feelings she couldn't find within herself to express- but maybe only because she was physically _incapable,_ as he hadn't taught her how to put them to words.

She had the knowledge of it, however- he'd instilled it within her, in the primary circuitry in her brain. With this in mind, she slowly, deliberately, balanced his palm on hers. Her fingers, slim, rounded, meticulously painted- held his as he'd held hers one night before, when he spoke of stories they used to both be main characters of. It was different now that she had _hands_.

Hands. They were always so intimate. He could feel her, truly _feel_ her, his new creation. He could thread his fingers back through her golden tresses, he could hold warmed skin where it was once cold. And now, as she carefully wound her own around his- clumsily, like a toddler, trying it for the first time- he sighed.

And for her, her world changed.

Because she could register it all now. The warmth of his palm, the trace of a pulse by his wrist. She could feel the callouses and burns and scars that ran along the edges of his roughened skin, could truly _control_ his hand as she lifted it to her cheek, her face- and it fit perfectly, _he_ fit perfectly, cupping her gently, as if she were built for his touch. Perhaps she _was,_ as it was something she could no longer put past him.

And that emotion came to her once more, in a wave. Thick, not quite water and more like molasses. Even had she the capacity to truly express it, she still would've choked. Her words would catch as if on barbed wire, and for a moment she wouldn't know if she'd laugh or cry.

It was so _consuming._

Ah. So that was what it was.

Terror.

And she couldn't understand. It was as if there was a gap in her brain, unable to process the information. Terror? _Terror?_ As the man she loved held her face, stared at her like he'd never seen another person the same way?

Even then, with her new skin and new senses, she could feel his hesitation. His fingers curled and he swallowed once, the lump in his throat lifting before dropping heavily.

He was scared.

He was _so_ scared.

And he, too, didn't know why.

* * *

She wasn't sleeping. She didn't know if she _could_ sleep. Sleep was a thing for humans- something she could no longer be classified as. Truthfully, she didn't know _what_ she was- and if he was being honest, neither did he. So they never discussed it.

Instead, she laid back on her chair.

She didn't know what to make of it anymore. This chair. It was complicated. Sometimes she'd lie there in pain, and he'd make it go away. Or she'd find herself in this chair, and then there'd be something new.

This time, there was none of that.

She had her hand out, poised and primed, as he hunched over each finger.

She loved this colour. Or she was supposed to. Maybe she used to?

She didn't know. It was all so scrambled in her brain. But it was a pretty shade of red, bright and fluorescent, like her eyes, before he'd made them gold. He said he liked the colour better that way. She didn't understand at the time, and truthfully, she still didn't.

He poured over each nail, careful and meticulous. She couldn't do this on her own- not yet, anyway. But he'd soon give her the capacity to. She deserved that much; of all the things that were robbed of her that he could only hope to restore, being able to paint her own nails was something he'd wanted to return.

And so she closed her eyes, and he continued to glide over each nail with the swab. Lilting music filled their ears, a soft rhythm in their silence. Conversation was slow, if anyone spoke at all. The only constant was the smell of solvent and the soft feminine voice that whispered through the air.

* * *

Her lips were cold.

He pulled away first, his own fingers finding his mouth. She stared with mild confusion. Everything in her mind made sense. There shouldn't have been anything wrong; the look in his eyes told otherwise, a certain apprehensiveness behind thick lenses.

It's not quite right, or so he told her, something about the skin and the warmth and it wasn't _the same_. His voice was lower, calm- but she'd long known that he was feeling the opposite. If there was anything she learned about him, it was his hesitations, his tells; and while some thought that it was merely a trick, or perhaps something else, she always _knew._

It was a glimpse of an emotion- a _state_ , that she'd seen here and there, but never fully understood.

Before she knew it, he threw himself into the research again.

She watched, questions abuzz in her mind, ones she _did_ have the capacity to put into words. Every time she tried to voice them, though, they lodged in her voicebox. He was working, and when he was working, she shouldn't disturb.

He _wanted_ to be disturbed. He _wanted_ M.A.R.1.E to interrupt him, to stop him from what he was doing. And yet, he didn't. He didn't want to stop. Not as he carefully reopened his long-since sealed samples of cells, not since he pulled out a piece of synthetic skin he managed to create before.

She only sat in her chair in stupefied silence, her eyes flicking back and forth, taking pictures and inputting them into her memory as he worked. The music had long since been turned off, no whirs of any machines came from around them barring the ones he was using. He barely breathed, barely made a _noise_ , and it was strange to her- foreign, even, until he threw down his hands, expletives spewing from his mouth under hushed breath.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. He turned.

His eyes were crazed.

But then they were normal - tired, if anything. Gently, his hand found hers- warm, once more. Soft. Smooth. Everything that, in theory, should've been her mouth, her lips- but _wasn't_. The memory ofhow she was was still engraved in his brain. How she used to feel against his lips when he kissed her on their wedding day, when he came home from work, when he'd silence her humming as she made dinner- and even then, she'd pull away, cheeks red, before resuming her song, albeit a bit higher.

It wasn't the _same_ , he said- but he could see in her eyes that she didn't understand.

* * *

There it was again- that feeling. Nervousness, fear, _excitement._ He looked younger now, with life back in those haunted eyes and colour in his otherwise pale was all new, but many things were _new_ , like being able to touch him- to feel the underlying tension in his skin, his posture, so vivid she could taste it.

He, too, stared at her, marveling at her faint blush that spread over her nose. She was soft, so _soft_ , so _close_ to what she once was, but not quite there; and yet all of that faded away. She pulled back a touch shy, her gold eyes hesitant beneath long eyelashes.

She unbuttoned her shirt.

And the more flesh was exposed, the more he was reminded of what he missed. It was a lot, it was too _much_ , for the indent of her collarbone, the tone in her muscles, the way her skin stretched and relaxed as she moved- for so long he'd stare, her body stagnate and still. But now, it was in front of him, soft and inviting. So close that, if he'd just extended a finger, he could reclaim it all.

He was so scared. So scared as her hands moved behind her back. It all seemed so easy for her. As much as he'd programmed and added and perfected, there was still an air of coldness to her, an air of precision as the bra came undone. He pushed away the doubt in his mind. She was in front of him, her clothing sliding off in her hands, and that was all that mattered. He laid a finger upon her breast, at first hesitant- like he was learning to touch again.

But she felt nothing.

And it was strange. From the memories and snatches and fogin her mind, she knew she should feel _something_. Arousal, pleasure- something different. He could be touching her arm, her face, for all that mattered. It was all the same.

He could see it in her eyes.

He lifted his hand, frustration fresh in his mind. She protested, said she wanted it too- that she loved him and this is what she _wanted_ , but how would she know?

The darkness was back. That much was easy to see. Soon his eyes would cloud and he'd suddenly withdraw, distant and cold. _She hated it_. Why could she feel frustration and disappointment so acutely and yet not pleasure?

No, it wasn't that. She _did_ have arousal. But no matter where he touched, where he tried to elicit sensation, there was nothing _._

The logical part of her brain told her that he'd never given her the capacity to understand such emotions in the first place, that her confusion was unnecessary.

The other side of her, however, the side that was loud and passionate- the side she was beginning to associate with _Marie_ \- felt differently. That part of her longed to understand, wastiredof not understanding. She wanted to know why he'd stopped and why she couldn't feel pleasure, why she felt frustration when he deliberately eased away from her, leaving her with nothing.

He was done with her for now. His labcoat covered his back and a cigarette was already stuck between his teeth.

He said nothing as she huffed, nothing as her fingers couldn't even tremble with the rage she felt as she buttoned her blouse. He said nothing as her actions couldn't reflect her emotions, that she had no capacity to act on her anger- though his eyes only narrowed as she glowered.

She didn't cry. She wasn't able to cry.

But the guilt finally caught up to him, sluggish and slow, as if wading through water. As the fog lifted from his brain and he regained feeling in his fingers, sight in his eyes, cognition in his brain, he whispered his apologies. They were still cold, but he couldn't find it within him to properly express the utter mess of emotions that rolled tumultuously in his brain, a sick pastiche of anger, despair, confusion, guilt, and madness.

She said nothing. Dressed properly, only her hair remained a mess. She didn't bother with a response, but her eyes said it all. She'd always had the ability to clearly display what she felt with her eyes, and with the same piercing gaze, she sat back on her chair. Thankfully, _finally_ , she rolled to her side, closing her eyes without so much as a word.

He was beginning to wonder, between the two of them, who the real robot was.

* * *

He was better since then. More accepting. They never attempted anything like that again, but his affection seemed to double- triple, even, as he was no longer afraid to press kisses along her jaw, her temple. His eyes warmed, no longer cold or reclused. Instead they were inviting, so loving- and he regarded her with new outlook every day.

She'd never felt so human, now that she had the capacity to feel this way. It was becoming easier for her to express herself, as if one function lead to another. As to why it wasn't so easily accessible before, she didn't know- but either way, she was warm, _he_ was warm, and like two moths with heat, they were drawn to each other, a lot less inexplicably than one would think.

He held her, so tenderly, in his arms. They didn't speak- there wasn't much to be said. Just each other's presence, at last- with each other. A couple of times she opened her mouth, but he silenced her. With so much adoration, he silenced her in ways she once imagined he'd never be capable. But Stein was a loving man, far more loving than she could've ever thought. He was loving and passionate and, as he looked to her with a warmth that wasn't unlike the languid fire that licked at her skin, caring.

He cared a lot.

He cared too much.

* * *

She woke up, in the same place- in her chair, as usual.

He held her hand, a wry smile on his face. So loving, so enamoured.

And he looked so much more youthful. _So much more at ease_ , she realized, as his hand lifted from hers to brush her face. His touch was so precious, so warm- worshipping, entirely true to the word, yet somehow still new to her.

But it hadn't always been new.

It jogged then, with his touch. After all this time, the confusion that lay around the corner of her brain taunted her with locked memories of what once was. And with a simple touch, what was once a faint stirring was stunningly clear.

He looked just as youthful as he did on their wedding day.

A memory as precious as this- whyhadn't she remembered it? None of it made sense, at all, but she didn't dwell. He certainly didn't, as he gently pulled her upright. She tried to inform him that she finally remembered everything that had been fighting to come back- every detail, every touch. She understood.

She loved him. She truly loved him.

And the look that he gave her told her that he, too, felt the same- as she opened her mouth to tell him, he shushed her, told her to sleep. To hush and to stay with him as she was.

She didn't want to sleep, she didn't! Couldn't!

"This isn't how it's supposed to be."

Her voice finally reached him.

And then he embraced her, threading his fingers through her long, golden hair, wrapping his arms around her sturdy, feminine frame. He choked out her name, and her own arms wrapped around him in return. He felt strong in her arms, though he was shaking. Her name was a ghost on his tongue, the syllables falling like raindrops from his lips.

She was there, in his arms. Finally. It was like the first time he'd embraced her- warm, soft, _fragile_.

Her circuitry whizzed. Something snapped within her, a spark, a fuse.

Before he knew it, before she realized, her eyelids fluttered shut. And with a certain grace, as if moving in water- she fell. Back onto the seat that had once granted her life, she was the opposite.

Lifeless.


	3. play

_play._

It was cold, silent. Nothing left but mere echoes of laughter and joy. There she lay, broken. Her balded head still shining, burns marred the surface of metal. What was once flesh now only reflective, a cold steel shell holding a dead heart. Her brittle fingers still curled, and the robotic voicebox still barely flickering. Still whirring.

A name on her lips, a clear monotone devoid of emotion, dead in more sense than one. None of it mattered to him; he only sat in silence, a dim, red light flickering in the reflection of his spectacles- the only sign of life in the dark, damp room.

It lay there on the table, broken. Painful. Wires still hung from her motherboard, spitting and crackling and emitting sparks here and there. He tried to forget the look she gave him from her laser eyes before she hooked them in herself, red lights closing in quiet acceptance, tried to forget how deeply her grief engraved itself into his memory as he tried, and tried again to wipe it all away.

He was the culprit. He did this to her. He took every piece away, one by one, until she was no longer Marie, or even M.A.R.1.E. who had come to life on March 1st, the fifth of its kind and the only one who survived. Who he had started to break apart as he had created her as the perfect replica of his former wife. _Too perfect._ The hunk of hissing metal and fading light was only a bitter reminder of his failure - his ultimate failure.

No. He refused to accept it. He wasn't the monster - he wasn't the one who stripped away her hands, her emotions, her voice. He didn't peel off the synthetic skin that made it look too much like Marie. He didn't burn off its hair, too dark to be even a shadow of.

And her eyes. Her _eyes_.

He could never take away her eyes.

And yet he _had_ , for all that was left was flickering red, a sad shallow red that still screamed pain, even if it no longer emoted.

She was dead.

Truly dead.

(And all he could hear was a record: on repeat- and wrongly so, **backwards** , jittering and jolting as the scratchy voice, for the upteempth time, began yet again…)

…

 _"Once upon a time, there was a man and his wife._

 _His wife died, and in his grief, the man made her once more._

 _An android…"_


End file.
